


In Every Mirror He Sees

by Notsohappycamper



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Perfect boy and grumpy man, Post-Peaceful Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-01 23:59:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15784809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notsohappycamper/pseuds/Notsohappycamper
Summary: It's difficult getting used to emotion. It's difficult learning how to live and love again.





	1. Chamomile with Lavender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is self-healing

Hank has been staring at him for exactly 6.93 seconds. 7.12 now. Connor doesn't know what to say.

He knows if he asked, Hank would just tell him that it's up for him to decide, and it is. With android rights rolling in under thousands if not millions of allies, supporters, and sympathizers, if there was ever a time for Connor to decide - on anything, on everything - now would be that time.

There is a pile of untouched money in his recently opened Cyberlife bank account, collecting the same bi-weekly payments only humans on the force used to get. There is an empty apartment in his name in one of the many complexes provided and built by Cyberlife for independent androids with no other place to live.

He can sit anywhere on public transportation, enter any store or restaurant of his own accord, yet somehow, with that new abundance of freedom, he can't decide on what to say to the human sitting across from him.

Hank's slouched at his desk, chin braced on a fist, current homicide case on his terminal forgotten. It's their first assignment involving two androids and  _only_ two androids, one killed by his ex-boyfriend, though it's been wrapped up and is ready for a prosecutor in less than a day since receipt. Their suspect folded like a house of cards and spewed through tears how they had fallen in love under Markus' lead, leased a Cyberlife apartment together after the success of the demonstration, then fought endlessly until one snapped and did something he'll always regret.

And he will always regret it. Androids are no longer destroyed and are now punished for crimes the same as humans: allowed a trial, stood before a jury of previously-screened impartial peers of both humans and androids alike, and if convicted, charged with a similar jail sentence a human would receive for the very same crime.

This procedure caused backlash immediately when first used for the case of an android committing the second-degree murder of a human protester. "Twenty years is nothing to them; they live forever anyway." "Make it a hundred!" "You're letting an immortal murderer back on the streets after a sentence that feels like a blink of the eye to him?"

But after Markus phoned the department and asked to speak to Connor when this fresh policy aired on the news the next day, exuding gratitude in waves for his vision of equality coming to life, the public's backlash suddenly didn't feel so important anymore.

That human-android murder case was days ago, however. Now, they're wrapping up a different case, another first of its kind. Now, Hank Anderson has been staring at him for exactly 10.05 seconds without looking away, and Connor thinks he can't stand it, or something close to that feeling. The exact emotion is unclear. He does a microsecond search and settles on anticipation.

"Yes, lieutenant?"

Hank blinks then grumbles out a sound like he's just been woken up, though that might not be too far off. He's been yawning every few minutes since noon and sipping at a lukewarm coffee he's refilled about six times now. Today counts approximately a month back on the force since his five-day unpaid suspension for punching Special Agent Perkins in November.

He repeats the sound and rolls his neck, glancing to the name plate officially placed two weeks ago on the desk no one was using across from his own. It reads "DET. CONNOR". Nothing about androids, nothing about being sent by Cyberlife. Just his title, his name, and nothing else.

"Never mind," he more sighs out than says, stifling another yawn and rubbing a hand down his face. Connor notices his blue LED blink three times in the reflection of his own terminal screen.

"You didn't sleep well last night." The older man raises an eyebrow at being informed of his own sleeping habits. "Chamomile tea is known to be effective against insomnia, as is warm milk, lavender oil, and maintaining healthy levels of magnesium-"

"Got it, smartass. I'm fine. Now get back to work."

Connor looks away and does as he's told. Hank barely touches his keyboard.

Something in Connor wants to mention it again at the end of their shift when they're packing up for the day, but he doesn't know how. He doesn't know how to do a lot of things anymore, things that once held no weight in his mind, like asking Hank how he's doing or suggesting he see someone for his issues. Before, speaking freely was effortless, but now, some things just feel... _feel_.

"Longest day ever," Hank complains, grabbing his winter coat on the way out, and Connor just nods and follows.

He tries once more in the car while Hank drives him home. His Cyberlife apartment is a twenty minute trip from the station in the opposite direction of Hank's house, and though Connor has stressed how infinitely inefficient it is that Hank doesn't just let him catch a bus to save forty extra minutes of driving, he's been told to shove that inefficiency "where the sun don't shine."

A song called "Testify" is playing in the car by a band named Rage Against the Machine, a band Connor notes having last been active in 2011. Hank would have been 26 at the time. He contemplates the band name and lets the song finish before attempting to speak, watching the snow-covered sidewalks out the window.

"Hank?" he begins when the energetic song has ended. "Is everything alright?"

There's a heavy sigh audible over the next song and the car's heating system blowing out warm air.

"How many times are you gonna ask me that fucking question?"

Connor almost corrects him that this is the first time in weeks he's wondered about Hank's well-being, but doesn't. He looks away out the windshield to the red taillights of the autonomous car in front of them at the stop sign.

"I was just wondering," he clarifies, but doesn't push more than that, so Hank never answers. He tries to reason that maybe it's for the best even if it feels like it's not.

They share a short goodbye in the parking lot, and Connor stands by the front door to watch Hank pull a U-turn like he always does, eyes trained on the car until it's out of sight. Then, in a trip up the elevator to the seventh floor and a walk to the end of the hall, he's back in that empty apartment again, removing his shoes at the door and hanging his suit jacket up in the bedroom closet. He removes his tie and folds that too with five identical ones in a plain dresser against the bare wall.

Other than that, there is no furniture but a single chair in what would be known as the living room set up facing the balcony window. He usually sits there and reads. Thinks. Sometimes watches cars drive by, memorizing their makes and models, though that gets old fast when most cars are carbon copies of the latest autonomous model released. He wonders how interesting streets would look filled with old cars like the one Hank owns.

His hand finds its way to the coin he left on the chair and flicks it idly while pacing from room to room. The empty kitchen, running refrigerator with nothing stocked on its shelves. Empty bathroom with an unused toilet and shower, an immaculately clean mirror he can't help but glance into as he passes. The bedroom without a bed.

By the time he makes it back to the chair, he has flipped the coin twenty-nine times. He counted.

It's a decent-sized apartment for someone who doesn't need it. When he first signed the lease and sat in that chair with nothing to do, he considered renting it out to other androids who would use it more than he did. The first week was rough. He went on walks a lot, sometimes to Riverside Park, sometimes circling the same block for hours before returning to recharge in his chair for the night.

It's a little easier now, but not always. He's grown use to the deep-seated silence, the quiet hum of the untouched refrigerator. The solitude of sitting alone isn't so heavy. Closing his eyes and recharging alone, getting dressed in the same clothes every morning and leaving alone. Taking the bus alone and sitting at his desk alone until Hank shows up sometime before noon. Rinse and repeat.

One morning during the first week, he thought his breathing simulation was malfunctioning. The air he sucked in felt solid in his chest until Hank was seated across from him, and it dissolved back into air. A quick diagnostic reported that all his systems were fully operational, so he chalked it up to software instability and tried not to think too much about it.

Yet here he is, thinking about it, completing two more laps around the apartment and flipping the coin fifty-eight more times. He stops at the chair as he's apt to do, the only notable landmark amidst the white walls and hardwood flooring other than the black front door.

It's dead silent. The cars driving by beyond the balcony window are all the same again. He looks to his shoes lined neatly by the door before doubling back to the bedroom to switch his white button-up for a light blue sweater.

There's no plan for where to go; there rarely is. There doesn't need to be. All he knows is that snowflakes are drifting from the gray sky as he walks from the complex towards busier streets, fingering the coin in his coat pocket.

All he knows is that he's feeling something again, but unsure of what exactly, something that keeps him walking the streets as the sun begins to set. The tightness in his throat isn't real. The heaviness in his chest does not exist. But he feels like it does. He _feels_.

It leads him to a small corner store on the edge of a street downtown, then another store down the block, then another. He scans aisle after aisle until finally approaching the clerk of a convenience store to ask if they have any tea selections. The android working behind the counter smiles, more than a simulated response, a real, genuine, free-willed smile, and suggests a store nearby that sells organic products, aromatics, and tea leaves.

It's an easy enough find, and a thirty minute taxi ride later, he is standing on Hank Anderson's doorstep with a small plastic bag in his left hand and right hand poised to ring the doorbell. After a second thought, he raps his knuckles on the wood instead.

Sumo barks from inside, footsteps thud through the house, and curses are mumbled from the other side of the door. The glare Hank sports when he yanks the door open gives way to surprise when he sees who's standing outside.

"Connor?" Blue eyes scan as if looking for injury. The android offers a smile he hopes is reassuring. "What's going on?"

"I... brought you something."

Sumo nudges at Hank's leg when he holds out the bag, edging close to the door and threatening to bolt, so Hank shoos him back and steps aside to let Connor in. He's wearing a dark gray Detroit Police hoodie Connor's never seen him in, endearingly baggy and cozy. The apartment is dimly lit with the TV on in the living room, the image paused and muted. Connor must have interrupted him watching a movie.

His hand curls around the plastic handle of the bag, a sudden rush of regret, embarrassment,  _something_ making him glance back to the closed front door. Satisfied with a few sniffs, Sumo decides the gift's not of importance and retires to the living room in front of the couch.

Hank's waiting, Connor realizes. Staring at him like he did in the station today. Unlike the station, it's only been 3.81 seconds.

"I brought you something to help with insomnia."

Hank's mouth opens, but nothing comes out, so Connor sets the bag on the cluttered kitchen table and wanders by to indulgently pet Sumo. The Saint Bernard lifts his head to regard their guest in the glow from the TV before huffing and settling down, closing his eyes as Connor smooths a slow hand from his ears to his back.

"Eighty fucking dollars?!" they hear blurted from the kitchen over the ruffle of plastic.

"Yes," the android confirms, standing. "It was the most expensive brand they had."

"Eighty fucking dollars for... What is this?" Hank turns the box over while Connor lingers between the kitchen and living room. "Organic chamomile with lavender??"

"It's best consumed with a spoonful of honey," he advises.

"Holy fuck, you got ripped off. Why'd ya spend eighty dollars on a box of shitty tea?"

"It's not _shitty_ , Hank. I made sure it was the most effective they had."

"Then why'd ya spend eighty dollars on 'the _most effective_ they had'?"

Hank sets the tea down in favor of crossing his arms, more curious than upset at this point. The hefty price sticker on the front of the box stares up at Connor as if it wonders the same.

"I can buy sleeping pills for a couple bucks, you know." The sentence isn't even complete before Connor is shaking his head.

"Sleeping pills aren't good for you. Not like this is. I don't spend money on anything. So why can't I spend it on this?" He's vaguely aware of the emotion charging his voice, spiking with each word. "Not to mention mixing sleeping pills with alcohol can kill you. Hank, I don't care if you don't want it, or if you don't want to talk, but... at least..."

The rest dies in his throat as Hank picks up the box again, peels off the price sticker, and presses it to his refrigerator door beside a collection of colorful post-it notes. The android squints at it in confusion.

"Eighty dollars, huh?" Hank mutters, opening the package and walking to a cabinet by the stove. "Better be the best damn sleep of my life..."

Connor doesn't know what to say.

"So you really don't spend your money on anything?" He scans the messy table, the sight of his LED switching from yellow to blue reflected on the curve of a glass cup. "What about that fancy apartment you got? Was all that for free?"

"No. I pay rent," he responds on auto-pilot. Hank hums and nods absentmindedly, heating a pot of water on the stove. "But other than that, I don't need much. You know?"

"That fancy-ass high rise... Not gonna lie, I wouldn't mind seeing the inside sometime. I mean, whenever you're not busy."

"Yes, of course. You can visit. Whenever," he spits out, then swallows and collects himself. Hank glances over but says nothing of it.

There's a heap of empty pizza boxes stacked on the table beside half-crushed beer cans and a damp pad of pink post-it notes. A quick analysis reveals they've been freshly wet from alcohol thirty minutes prior, a composition of grain, hops, yeast, and water. There are seven beer cans in total, all of them crushed and empty.

"Hank, is..." Everything alright? "...the tea good?"

A faded-green coffee mug is pressed to Hank's lips, white string from the chamomile tea bag draped over the rim and dangling against the ceramic. The liquid inside is still too hot to sip, but Hank's eyes are already half-lidded, chest rising with each inhale of warm steam. He looks to Connor with tired eyes, a cocktail of weary emotions the android can't decipher, and mumbles against the rim of the mug.

"S'good."

Connor stares before remembering he should probably speak.

"Good," he murmurs back. Hank sighs out into his mug while steam curls around his face, and Connor stares for a few more seconds.

He cycles through possible pre-constructions: mentioning how empty his apartment is, how empty Hank's home is, asking if Hank would mind if he...

The pre-constructions destroy themselves, faint outlines of him crossing the kitchen fading away. He blinks and is left with the sight of Hank sipping at his tea and still quietly regarding him.

"Well. Good night, then, Hank." The eighty dollar price sticker stuck to the fridge catches his eye when he turns to look back. "Oh, and lieutenant? Try not to fall asleep on your couch again tonight, or the tea will have been a waste."

"Wha- How do you- I-" Hank sputters.

"It was obvious. The signs of poor sleep, the pain in your neck you keep trying to stretch out, the movie paused on the television. I'm a detective, Hank?" Connor tilts his head. "Remember?"

"You... fuckin'... Godammit."

"Try to get to bed at a decent hour, alright? It is already 10:47."

"Yeah, yeah, Christ... Whatever you say, _dad_."

It isn't until Connor sees his way out and wirelessly hires another taxi for the ride home that he realizes he's still smiling. It's difficult getting used to emotion. It takes him less than a microsecond to consider that maybe it always will be.


	2. Homesickness

It's strange.

Opening his eyes to a crystal-clear view out his window had become the norm the past couple of days. It's strange how surprised he feels when he's met with a blanket of white, instead.

At 6:00 A.M, the sun is barely up, though if it were it would hardly be visible through a sea of clouds. He stands motionless by his balcony door in the short-sleeved shirt and black sweatpants he 'slept' in, a finger to the frosted glass informing him it's only 28°F.

As unnecessary as it may be for recharging, the apartment lights are off, the room at his back cast in quiet gray. Lights have no effect on recharging - he doesn't really sleep, doesn't lose consciousness at all during the process - but by now it's more of a ritual to flick the switch off on his way to the chair. Just as recharging every night for eight hours is, even when he's running at full capacity and has no need to recharge at all.

Today, there is no morning light to greet him. Bundled humans and androids on the street below trudge to the nearest bus stop through three solid inches of snow as the road is cleared by autonomous snow plows. Like rocks in a rushing stream, three androids in particular stand out static among it all, circling each other with handfuls of snow in the parking lot under his seventh floor window.

Androids can't get cold, only YK500s when that particular feature's been activated, so, he wonders, why are three adult androids, a VB800, ST300, and WR400, chasing each other and cradling snow like a threat? The biocomponents of certain androids have been known to suffer critical damage if exposed to freezing temperatures for too long, as well, and 28° certainly qualifies as freezing.

They really ought to be getting inside, but they aren't, Connor sees. They're smiling and laughing, tossing snow into each other's hair and pressing cold hands to each other's faces. Ten whole minutes slip by before he remembers he can't just watch them all day and walks to his bedroom to get dressed in a daze.

That image thumbtacks itself to his mind and turns his usually somber elevator ride into a pondering of their motives, calculating the most likely rationale for their flippant and baseless behavior. He never settles on a conclusion, though, never considers that his mechanical evaluation is what's keeping him from one in the first place.

Androids playing in something they can't even feel... He is state-of-the-art technology, equipped with advanced reasoning and intellectual abilities, yet he can't for the life of him wrap his head around it.

Those three androids are now by the sidewalk, he sees when he steps out under the light gray sky, still laughing, making angels in the snow with their arms and legs. Miles away, Hank Anderson glances through blinds at children on winter vacation making snow angels in the yard across the street before stumbling back to bed.

Three adult androids in a line, blue LEDs highlighted against glistening white with smiles on each of their faces.

A stark contrast to the provocative red and black painting hanging on the victim's living room wall. It might be of a nude woman, or maybe a mutated butterfly, certainly harder than it should be to decipher the wild, arcing swirls. Connor traces the paint until he sees himself reflected on the glass it's framed in, a clear-cut subject unlike the woman: a young man with brown hair and brown eyes in a dark peacoat, no longer adorned in Cyberlife attire and branded head to toe as an android. There's a perplexed look in his eyes.

"Connor!"

That young man on the painting breaks eye contact and bee-lines to the kitchen, taking care to step over the victim's body laying on the off-white carpet by an overturned coffee table.

It's no longer 6 A.M. It's 11.

Another house on the outskirts of the suburbs, another homicide victim, another case of android involvement. This time a cross-species friendship that started with freedom rights and ended with forensics, a terribly familiar pattern. Sometimes Connor wonders if Markus knows just how many violent cases have arisen from his peaceful protests, though perhaps it's best if he doesn't.

"I hate to ask," Hank says in the kitchen, hands in his pockets, chin buried in the dark brown scarf around his neck. Connor fights back the irrational urge to reach out and tighten it. "But I need you to, ya know, do your thing with this blood."

There's humor in his voice, humor and exhaustion like he's sick to death of everything but trying to make the most of it. Connor would wonder if he's switched out the chamomile tea for whiskey by now, but time spent wondering that would be time wasted. The answer is apparent.

"Whatever you need, lieutenant." The blood sample's in his mouth before Hank can look away, though he does so regardless, cursing under his breath. "It's our victim's alright. Dating back two days ago, the day of the murder. He was first assaulted here."

"Thought so." Other than that spot of blood, nothing else in the kitchen appears out of place. "Fuck... Getting harder to catch these bastards."

Connor can't help but agree. Now that androids have been granted prosecution rights by the government itself, their violent crimes are far less sloppy and desperate. They're driven on emotion, but not the gut-wrenching, life-or-death emotion deviants used to self-destruct under. They're much more likely to slow down now, to analyze the situation and use their superior intellect to outsmart their victim and cover their tracks.

"If there were footprints outside," Connor thinks aloud, pacing back to the living room and glancing to the front door, "the snow would have covered them up by now. And our suspect knew that."

"I hate doing this shit in the winter..."

"They took advantage of it. They punched him in the kitchen, strangled him in the living room, then walked right out the front door after cleaning up the evidence."

"And are long gone by now," Hank finishes for him, leaning back against the kitchen counter with worn frustration set in his eyes.

It kills him to agree. Connor gazes up to the glassed painting on the living room wall and sees the same frustration in his own eyes. His blinking yellow LED makes a pretty sight against the swirls of crimson red.

"I've noted the locations of every traffic and CCTV camera within a five block radius," he informs Hank as they step around the forensics personnel on their way out the door. "I'll review as much footage as possible and try to spot the android fitting the description."

"Good luck working with the description we got." Hank squints through the snowfall, crossing the unshoveled driveway to his old car parked by the curb. "Gray coat, black hat... Fuckin' hell. Normally, crime rates plummet in winter, but I can see that ain't gonna be the case this year."

He understands Hank's frustration. Tension fills the car until he's hyper-aware of the leather steering wheel creaking under his partner's hands. A seed of guilt sprouts in his chest and grows the entire drive back to the station; guilt for androids as a whole, guilt for not somehow overcoming impossible odds and solving the case on the spot. He doesn't get it. It doesn't make much sense.

It doesn't make sense like those androids making angels in the snow this morning didn't. Like his urge to reach out and fix Hank's scarf at the crime scene didn't. And like his nervousness doesn't now, as he's unlocking his apartment door after work and Hank is leaning on the opposite wall watching, mentioning how nice of a building it is.

It doesn't make sense, but it happens anyway and leaves him struggling to pick up the pieces.

A neighboring door opens, and the android who steps out does a double-take, caught off guard by the presence of a human in an otherwise mostly inorganic environment. Hank just glances up and flashes a terse smile while she frowns and quickens her pace to the elevator down the hall.

"Friendly neighbors," he mutters as Connor holds the door open.

"Some androids are still overcoming their prejudice of humans. I doubt they mean anything by it."

"Even if they did, I wouldn't give a flyin'- Holy shit, did you leave a window open?! It's freezing in here!"

Connor flicks on the living room light while Hank lingers just beyond the doorway and shrinks into his coat. Hank is wrong about him leaving a window open, but right in assuming he forgot something equally important. The current temperature of the apartment is below 35°F because he didn't turn the heat on.

There's a blessing in being the most advanced prototype Cyberlife has ever created: being spared the inefficiency of biocomponents freezing at temperatures around 30°. Normally, he sees no reason to have the heating unit running, but with today being the coldest it's been all winter coupled with having a human guest over, that routine course of action was a mistake on his part.

"I'm sorry, Hank." He rushes to the thermostat on the wall beside the kitchen and adjusts it to an optimal temperature for human comfort. Hank has closed the front door and is huffing warm breath onto his hands. "Shit, I'm sorry..."

"It's fine, it's fine. I'll live." Sighing, he gazes around the empty space, takes a seat in the lone chair without question, and makes himself at home. Something about that leaves Connor paused and staring. "Goddamn, your living room alone is bigger than my house..."

It occurs to the android, somewhere in the back of his mind, somewhere under the main processes running his system that this is the first person who has stepped foot in his apartment other than himself. He thinks he should feel invaded, having the only space he legally and rightfully owns in this world intruded upon, but he doesn't. He feels something else, instead.

"You've gotta be shittin' me if this is the only furniture you've got, Connor." The subject of his thoughts leans back in the chair, legs spread, admiring the view out the balcony window. There's a trail of snow clumps leading from the door to Hank's boots, branching off from another trail leading past the thermostat to Connor's.

"Well," the android says with no lack of mirth, stepping before the chair with his arms behind his back, "I believe I am shitting you, Hank."

It's hard to bite back a smile at how his mouth drops in disbelief. His arm is slung over the back of the chair, legs still spread, so relaxed and nonchalant that Connor forgets for a second this is his first time here. It would be easy to imagine Hank as a constant here instead of a fleeting relief from the usual emptiness. It feels nice to imagine.

"You're telling me that everyday after I drive you home, there's nothing in here but a chair in a freezing room? A chair that's already making my ass go numb?"

"I don't just sit there," Connor mumbles in slight offense. "I often go out on walks, too. I'm honestly content with only this piece of furniture. That might be hard for you to understand."

"Alright. C'mere." He's not expecting Hank to stand and reach into his pocket with one hand, gesturing to him with the other. "C'mon, c'mere."

He's taking out his wallet, Connor realizes too late, late enough that a small piece of plastic is already held out before him. It's not that he didn't see it coming; his prognosis ability and response time are second to none. The surprise just leaves him speechless and dumbfounded.

"You..." He analyzes Hank's expectant gaze, the way he shakes the card like he wants Connor to take it without question. "You know I can't accept that, Hank."

"Take it. Buy something nice for this place other than a chair. Just looking at it is making me depressed."

"No. I have money. If you'd like, I will buy something for you."

Hank pauses from reluctantly tucking the credit card back into his wallet to look up, "It's not for _me_ , Connor, it's for _you_."

"Right," the android corrects, off-kilter from that feeling of a malfunctioning breathing simulation again. "For me."

It's awkward as Hank sighs for the second time - the fifteenth time since arriving at the station this morning - puts his wallet away, and looks around the empty room, and Connor wonders if he did something wrong. If he should have just accepted it instead of pushing Hank away. If there was something innately human about the request that he could never understand. Like androids making snow angels under his balcony window.

"Hank, I-" he starts, but the man he's addressing hooks his shoulder and yanks him forward until he's wrapped in the dry scent of whiskey, natural book pages, and something distinctly _Hank_. He closes his eyes and clings to this feeling, to this press of Hank's chest against his own through their winter coats, to the arms firm against his back.

This is the second time he has been hugged. Now, both times have been in the cold, the first outside and chilly enough that Hank's breath made vapor clouds over his shoulder, yet, despite that, this one feels just as warm as the first.

"I'm freezin' my ass off," Hank mutters in excuse. Connor slowly lifts his arms and smiles against the gray hair on his jaw, increasing his core temperature to one safe for both Hank and his biocomponents.

"I know you haven't been drinking your tea, Hank," he accuses, voice soft though it doesn't really need to be. The apartment is as empty and quiet as it always is. Well, Connor thinks, perhaps not as empty.

"It hasn't been working."

"That's because you haven't been drinking it."

"I did, for a bit..." Hank shifts in his arms, pulls away just a few centimeters. He might not have even noticed, not like Connor does. "But I still see his face every night I close my eyes. So I prescribed myself something a little stronger. If you wanna blame me for that, be my guest."

"Hank..." Connor whispers. It feels so hard to breathe now that he's concerned an error message could arise at any moment. It's a wonder not a single one has already. Without a doubt, there is some foreign object lodged in his chest cavity. There absolutely must be. "I know you love him. Wherever he is, he must know you love him, too."

"Your programming tell you anything about the afterlife?" Hank asks, sarcastic and deflective, but there's something soft in his voice that breaks and makes Connor tighten his hold, getting those lost centimeters back.

"I was programmed by humans. I know about as much as you."

"Figures... S'not your fault..."

"Hank," he almost gasps now, that object in his chest cavity stretching to the back of his throat. He can't see his LED, but the deduction that it's red and blinking is easy to arrive at. "Can I ask you something... strange?"

"Shoot."

"Do you ever feel like," when he stops to suck in a breath, Hank leans back to see his face, "sometimes you can't breathe, even though you're breathing perfectly fine?"

"What, like... you're in pain?" Eyebrows scrunch in concern, so Connor shakes his head, blinking so often he can hardly make out the features of Hank's face under the ceiling fan light. The corners of his eyes feel wet. "Is something wrong?"

"No. It's not... It's something like pain, but without an actual injury." He sounds confused. Perplexed. "It's a pain of leaving something behind." He glances to Hank's scarf. "Of missing something that is usually there." The blue of Hank's eyes is what the sky probably looks like under all the snow clouds. "I don't know, I'm- I'm not describing it very well."

"Like..." Hank marvels, gentle and empathetic, though clearly bewildered, "homesickness?"

"Yes," Connor realizes in a breath, reinstating the hug and closing his eyes. "Like homesickness."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Hank.


End file.
